Chapter 14: The View From Above: Your Worries in a Larger World

A Path Above the Town

Samuel is forty-three and works as a manager in a busy printing company. This week has been one of the worst of his working life. A large order was printed with a mistake, and the customer is threatening to leave. Two of his staff are in conflict and have both complained to him. His teenage son has stopped talking to him after an argument about school. And on Thursday night, he lay awake until four in the morning, going over all of it again and again.

On Saturday morning, unable to sit still, Samuel puts on his walking boots and goes to a hill path above the town where he lives. He has not walked there for years. The path is steep, and for the first half hour he barely notices his surroundings. His mind is still in the printing room, in the argument with his son, in the conversation he will have with the customer on Monday.

Then he reaches the top and turns around. Below him lies the whole town. He can see the roofs of houses, the river, the roads with tiny cars moving along them, the football field where children are playing, the hospital, the market square. Somewhere down there is his printing company, a small grey building he can barely see. Somewhere is his own house, with his son inside it. From up here, everything looks very small and very quiet.

Samuel sits on a rock for a long time. His problems have not gone away. But something has shifted. Down there, in the middle of the week, his worries had filled the whole sky. Up here, he can see that they are a few small things in a town full of lives. Every one of those houses holds people with their own worries, their own arguments and their own hopes. The town goes on, and the river goes on, and the sky above it all is very wide.

Without knowing it, Samuel has practised one of Marcus Aurelius' favourite exercises. Later writers have called it the view from above. It is a way of looking at our lives and worries as if from a great height, so that we can see them in their true proportion.

Marcus Looks Down on the World

Marcus describes this practice in several places in his notebook. In one note, he tells himself to look from above at the countless herds of people, their ceremonies, their voyages in storms and calm seas, the many ways they come into being, live together and pass away (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 9.30). He reminds himself to think of the lives lived long ago, the lives that will be lived after him and the lives being lived now among distant peoples. How many people do not even know his name, he reflects, and how many will soon forget it.

In another note, Marcus gives a fuller picture. When you speak about human beings, he says, look at earthly things as if from above: herds of animals, armies, farms, weddings, separations, births, deaths, the noise of courts, empty places, markets, festivals and mourning. All of it mixed together, and all of it making up the order of the whole (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.48).

Marcus also used the view from above for time, not only for space. He asked himself to imagine the people who lived a few generations before him. They married, raised children, fell ill, died, fought, feasted, traded, farmed, flattered, worried, plotted, hoped and complained. And all of that life has now passed. Then he imagined the generation just before his own, and saw the same pattern (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 4.32). Each generation is full of passionate concerns, and each passes away, making room for the next.

In yet another note, Marcus tried to see the size of things from the point of view of the whole universe. Whole continents, he wrote, are only corners of the universe. The entire sea is a drop. The tallest mountain is a small lump of earth. The present moment is a point in endless time. Everything is small, changing and passing (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 6.36).

Why would an emperor write such things? Marcus was, in his time, one of the most powerful people in the world. He faced wars, plagues, rebellions and endless demands. He could easily have come to believe that everything depended on him and that every problem was enormous. The view from above was his way of keeping his worries, and his pride, in proportion. It reminded him that he was one person among countless others, living a short life in a vast world.

In modern times, a few people have seen with their own eyes what Marcus could only imagine. Some of those who have travelled into space and looked back at the earth have described a deep change in the way they saw human life afterwards. From that distance, they said, borders could not be seen, and the planet looked small, fragile and shared. Their words echo Marcus' notes closely, even though they were written almost two thousand years later. The view from above seems to teach the same lesson to anyone who truly takes it.

The Circles of Belonging

The view from above can make us feel small. But the Stoics paired it with another idea that makes us feel connected. A Stoic teacher named Hierocles, who lived in the second century, described each person as standing at the centre of a set of circles. His writings survive only in parts, preserved by a later collector of old texts, but this image has become famous.

In the first and smallest circle, Hierocles said, is a person's own mind and body. Around it is a circle of close family: parents, partners, children. Next comes a circle of other relatives. Then a circle of neighbours and people from the same town. Then a circle of fellow citizens. And finally, the largest circle of all contains the whole human race. Hierocles suggested that a wise person should try to draw the circles inward: to treat people in the outer circles a little more like those in the inner ones. We might, for example, speak of cousins as if they were brothers and sisters, and of strangers as if they were relatives.

Marcus held the same idea. As a ruler, he wrote, his city and his homeland were the empire he governed. But as a human being, his city and his homeland were the whole world (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 6.44). The Stoics believed that all human beings share in reason and belong to one great community, regardless of where they were born or what position they hold. This idea, often called cosmopolitanism, from Greek words meaning "citizen of the world", became one of the most influential parts of Stoic thought.

Together, the view from above and the circles of belonging do something very helpful for worry. The first reminds us that our worries are small in the great picture. The second reminds us that we are not alone in that picture. When Samuel looked down at the town, he saw not only how small his problems were, but also how many other people were living their own lives, with their own troubles, all around him. His worries were small, and they were shared. Both of these facts can bring relief.

Worry tends to make the world shrink to the size of our problem. It narrows our attention until we see nothing else. The view from above widens it again. It lets us see our worry as one part of a larger life, and our life as one part of a larger world. This is not meant to make our concerns meaningless. It is meant to put them back in their proper place.

Ewa and the Night Sky

Ewa is fifty-five and works as a bookkeeper. For most of her life, she has been a worrier. She worries about mistakes in her accounts, about her health, about her adult children and about the money she has saved for old age. Some years ago, a friend took her to a small field outside town on a clear night to look at the stars through a telescope. Since then, Ewa has become an amateur stargazer.

On clear nights, she drives to the same field with her telescope and a flask of tea. She sets up the telescope, waits for her eyes to adjust to the dark and looks up. She finds the planets, the star clusters and, on the clearest nights, the faint smudge of distant galaxies. Each point of light, she knows, is far beyond anything she can imagine. The light from some of them left long before she was born.

Ewa says that stargazing does something for her worry that nothing else does. "When I look up," she says, "I remember how big everything is, and how small my problems are in comparison. But it does not make me feel worthless. It makes me feel lucky. Out of all of that, here I am, able to see it." When she drives home, her worries are still there. But they are quieter, and she sleeps better.

Ewa has learned to bring this feeling into her daytime life too. When she notices a worry growing too large at her desk, she sometimes closes her eyes for a moment and imagines the night sky. She pictures herself in the field, looking up, and her desk becoming a tiny point far below. Then she opens her eyes and looks at the worry again. Usually, it has become a more manageable size.

Ewa's practice is very close to Marcus' view from above, though she found it by herself. It shows that the practice can take many forms: a mountain path, a night sky, a map, a photograph of the earth from space, or simply the imagination. What matters is the change of view: from inside the worry to above it.

Ewa has also noticed that the view from above helps her be kinder to herself about mistakes. When she finds an error in her accounts, her first reaction used to be panic and harsh self-criticism. Now, she reminds herself that the error is real and must be fixed, and she fixes it carefully. But she also reminds herself that it is one small error, in one small office, on one small planet, made by one ordinary person doing her best. That reminder does not make her careless. It makes her calm enough to work well.

Ji-ho at the Food Bank

Ji-ho is thirty and works as a software designer. Two evenings a week, he volunteers at a food bank, where families who are struggling can collect groceries. He started volunteering because a friend asked him to help one evening, and he kept going because he found it meaningful.

Ji-ho has his own worries. He worries about deadlines at work, about whether his career is moving fast enough, about his rent and about a relationship that recently ended. Some evenings he arrives at the food bank feeling heavy and distracted. But by the time he leaves, he usually feels lighter.

When Ji-ho thought about why, he realized that the food bank gave him a kind of view from above. There, he meets people of all ages and backgrounds: a grandmother collecting food for her grandchildren, a young father who lost his job, a student who cannot afford to eat properly while studying. Each of them is carrying their own heavy load. Seeing them reminds him that his worries are real but not unusual, and that he is part of a much larger human community, with many people struggling in many ways.

Ji-ho is careful about one thing. He does not use the people at the food bank to make himself feel better by comparison, thinking, "At least my problems are smaller than theirs." That would be unkind, and it would miss the point. Instead, he feels something closer to Hierocles' circles. The people he meets are, in a sense, his relatives in the human family. Helping them draws the outer circles a little closer. And in doing that, his own worries take their place among the many concerns of a shared life.

Ji-ho has also found that the food bank gives his worry somewhere useful to go. Instead of only turning his attention inward, he turns some of it outward, toward people he can actually help. As Marcus might say, he is doing the work of a human being, playing his part in the larger community. That sense of purpose is one of the strongest answers to the narrowing of worry.

Bongani in the Waiting Room

Bongani is sixty-two. This morning, his wife is having an operation, and he is sitting in the hospital waiting room. The doctors have told him that the operation is serious but routine, and that it will take several hours. He has a newspaper on his lap that he has not read, and a cup of coffee that has gone cold.

For the first hour, Bongani's mind is fixed on one thing: his wife, behind the closed doors. He imagines everything that could go wrong. He checks the clock again and again. Then, slowly, he begins to notice the other people in the waiting room. A young woman holding a sleeping baby. An elderly man with his eyes closed. A teenage boy fidgeting with his phone. A woman of about his own age, quietly crying.

Bongani realizes that every person in this room is waiting for someone. Every one of them is carrying the same kind of fear he is carrying. He is not the only person in the world who loves someone behind a closed door. He has the sense, suddenly, of being part of a great company of people who wait, worry and love. It is a strange comfort, but it is real.

When the woman of his own age looks up, Bongani offers her a tissue from his pocket. They begin to talk quietly. Her husband is also having an operation. They talk about their partners, their children and the hospital food. The hours pass more easily. When a nurse comes to tell Bongani that his wife's operation has gone well, he feels great relief. Before he leaves, he shakes the woman's hand and wishes her husband well. She thanks him for the company.

Bongani's view from above did not come from a mountain or a telescope. It came from looking up from his own worry and seeing the people around him. The waiting room became a small picture of the whole world: many people, many fears, all connected by the same human love. His worry for his wife did not disappear, and it should not have. But it became something shared, and shared worry is lighter.

Practical Steps: Looking From Higher Up

The first step is to find a high place, real or imagined. If you can, go to a hill, a tall building or any place where you can see a wide view. Look down at the roads, roofs and people, and let your mind settle. If you cannot go to such a place, close your eyes and imagine one. Imagine rising above your home, then above your town, then above your country's mountains and seas, until you can see the whole earth turning in space.

The second step is to look at your worry from that height. From up there, ask yourself: how large is this worry, compared with everything I can see? Will it matter in a year? In ten years? In a hundred? Most worries become smaller in this light, not because they are unimportant, but because they take their true place among all the other things in a life and a world.

The third step is to notice the other lives. As Marcus did, picture the countless people around you, living their own days: working, eating, arguing, laughing, worrying, hoping. Remember that each of them carries their own concerns. This can bring both perspective and a sense of company. You are not the only person who worries, and you are not alone.

The fourth step is to draw the circles inward. Choose one person from an outer circle, someone you do not know well, and treat them for a moment as if they were closer: a neighbour, a colleague, a stranger in a queue. Offer a small kindness, as Bongani offered a tissue. This turns the view from above from a private reflection into a shared life.

The fifth step is to come back down and act. The view from above is not an escape from your life. It is a way of returning to it with clearer eyes. After the view, ask: given that my worry is smaller than it felt, and given that I am part of something larger, what is the next sensible thing to do? Samuel, after his walk, went home and knocked on his son's door. They did not solve everything, but they talked for the first time in a week.

A sixth step is to use time as well as space. When a worry feels huge, ask yourself how you will see it in five years, or how someone looking back on your life from far in the future would see it. Many of the things that kept us awake at night in past years are now forgotten, or remembered only as small events in a long story. Today's worry will probably take a similar place, and remembering this can loosen its hold.

Small but Not Unimportant

The view from above has to be used with care. It can be very helpful for everyday worries, the kind that grow too large in our minds. But it should never be used to tell someone that their pain does not matter. If a person is grieving, ill or in great difficulty, telling them that their suffering is "small in the great scheme of things" would be unkind and untrue.

Marcus did not use the view from above to dismiss suffering. He used it to keep his own worries and pride in proportion, and to remind himself of his connection with others. The practice works best when we choose it for ourselves, not when it is pushed on us by someone else. And it works best for the extra layer of worry that sits on top of a difficulty, not for the difficulty itself.

It is also important to remember that small does not mean unimportant. From the top of the hill, Samuel's son looked like a tiny figure in a tiny house. But to Samuel, his son was enormously important, and rightly so. The view from above does not change what we love. It changes how tightly we grip our worries about it. We can see that our concerns are small in the universe and still care deeply about the people and things within them.

Some people find the view from above frightening rather than comforting. The vastness of space and time can make them feel lost. If that is your experience, you do not need to use this practice. The circles of belonging may suit you better, since they focus on connection rather than size. As always, choose the tools that help you, and leave the others.

A Short Exercise: The Widening Circles

This exercise combines Marcus' view from above with Hierocles' circles. It takes about ten minutes. You can do it sitting quietly with your eyes closed, or you can do it on paper by drawing circles.

Begin by thinking of a worry that is troubling you. Hold it in mind for a moment, without trying to solve it. Notice how large it feels, and how it seems to fill your attention.

Now imagine yourself at the centre of a small circle. In this circle are only you and your worry. Then let the circle widen to include the people closest to you: your family, your partner, your closest friends. Think of them for a moment, and of their own lives and concerns. Then let the circle widen again, to include your neighbours, colleagues and the people you see every day. Then wider still, to include everyone in your town. Then everyone in your country. Then everyone on earth, billions of people, each living a life as full and as complicated as yours.

Finally, let the circle widen to include the earth itself, turning slowly in space, with its oceans, forests, cities and fields. Rest for a moment in that wide view. Then, from that height, look back at your worry. Notice its size now. Notice, too, that you are not alone with it. Countless others, in every circle, have carried worries like yours and found ways to go on.

Then slowly bring the circles back in: from the earth to everyone on it, to your town, to the people you see every day, to those closest to you and finally to yourself. As you return, ask yourself one question: "What is one kind thing I could do today for someone in one of my circles?" Write it down, and do it if you can.

If you prefer paper, draw a small circle in the centre of a page and write your worry inside it. Draw larger circles around it, labelling each one: family, friends, neighbours, town, the world. In each circle, write one name or one kind of person. At the bottom of the page, write the kind thing you will do. Keep the page and look at it the next time your worry starts to fill the sky.

Chapter Summary

Marcus practised the view from above, looking at human life as if from a great height, with all its ceremonies, voyages, births and deaths (Meditations 9.30, 7.48). He imagined past generations, all busy with concerns that have now passed (Meditations 4.32), and saw continents as corners of the universe and the present as a point in time (Meditations 6.36). Hierocles described each person at the centre of widening circles of belonging and urged us to draw those circles inward, while Marcus called the whole world his city (Meditations 6.44).

Samuel on the hill path, Ewa under the night sky, Ji-ho at the food bank and Bongani in the waiting room all found that looking from a wider view made their worries smaller and their sense of connection larger. The view from above should never be used to dismiss real suffering. It is a tool for putting our extra worries in proportion and for remembering that we are not alone.

In the final chapter, we will bring together the ideas of this book and think about how to carry them forward: not as a personality we must have, but as a practice we can return to, again and again.